


Blood Like Holiness

by ObliObla



Series: Obli's Fuckruary 2020 [15]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Blood, Bondage, Established Relationship, F/F, Fuckruary 2020 (Lucifer TV), Marking, Smut, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:13:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22766815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObliObla/pseuds/ObliObla
Summary: There’s blood on Maze’s lips, rough cloth over her eyes. Leather cuts into her wrists, her ankles, binding her to the mattress with a strength she thinks she could best, but she doesn’t want to. She doesn’t want to do anything but bite her tongue against the heat pounding between her legs. She was told to stay quiet, and she will.For now.
Relationships: Eve/Mazikeen (Lucifer TV)
Series: Obli's Fuckruary 2020 [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1619344
Comments: 10
Kudos: 70





	Blood Like Holiness

**Author's Note:**

> Day 15! Prompt: Marking/Whipping

There’s blood on Maze’s lips, rough cloth over her eyes. Leather cuts into her wrists, her ankles, binding her to the mattress with a strength she thinks she could best, but she doesn’t want to. She doesn’t want to do anything but bite her tongue against the heat pounding between her legs. She was told to stay quiet, and she will.

For now.

A clever tongue slides along the crease of her thigh, a kiss pressing between her folds with a tenderness that makes her hiss. She clamps her jaw shut, but she’s too slow, _too slow,_ a whimper she wishes was embarrassing slipping from her mouth and hanging in the air.

“Shh,” Eve whispers, and there are teeth scraping against Maze’s throat, lips chasing the pain with a sweet warmth. “Hold still, now,” Eve murmurs in her ear.

And Maze tries, she _does,_ but Eve’s fingertips are slick against her clit, and she shivers up into the pressure, thighs shaking. And it’s good, it’s _so_ good, but Eve pulls away, and she flops back to the sheets, groaning.

“You don’t seem to be listening,” Eve says softly from much too far away.

The word _please_ shudders along Maze’s chapped lips, but she swallows it down with the blood. She is Mazikeen, first of the Lilim, and she does _not_ beg. But oh, does she want to.

“Do you want to be punished?” Eve asks quietly, and her merciful fingertips rejoin Maze’s heat, teasing her to the point of madness.

“ _Yes,”_ Maze says easily. There is no shame in this for her, for _them._ None is allowed in this bed, so much more mundane than some godly garden, but so much kinder than all that bitter soil.

“Tell me what you want,” Eve sing-songs, abandoning the other game, withdrawing her hand as Maze cries out. Maze licks her lips, taking a breath, but a further touch has her choking on her words.

“What was that?” Eve asks, giggling a little at her sputter.

Maze takes another breath and grinds out, “Riding crop.”

“Is that all?”

Maze laughs harshly, throwing her head back into soft pillows. “To start.”

The first strike hits her thigh faster than she was expecting. Eve must have already been holding it, that cheeky, glorious bitch. A second hit catches between her legs, and the pain is fire shooting through her cunt, climbing up her nerves in a rush of sensation.

A few more hits like that, and she could come, but Eve pulls away and settles near the head of the bed where she can run the rough edge of the crop across Maze’s cheek, over her lips, and down her throat, lightly tapping the vibrations there. Maze hums, the leather catching against her skin, and as the crop makes its way back down between her breasts, Eve’s fingers return to pinch her nipples.

“Mm, Eve.”

Fingernails scratch over her collarbone.

“ _Mm_ …”

With a _thwack,_ the crop comes down hard on her nipple.

“Eve!”

Another hit, and her back arches into it. Her hearing fuzzes out, and the next thing she notices is the soft strands of the flogger running over her breasts. They brush her stomach, the hair between her legs, trailing down over thighs and calves and ankles. When they scratch lightly on the soles of her feet, Maze sighs, and Eve works at the straps around her ankles, crawling up alongside her body to undo her wrist restraints.

“Turn around, sweet. That’s it.”

Mazikeen, first of the Lilim, has been called many things in her time—bitch, skank, even hot stuff, one memorable time—but never _sweet._ Yet Eve could call her any name, and it would taste like victory. She rolls over, landing on her stomach, arching her back to press peaked nipples against the sheets. Eve takes her wrists in surprisingly strong hands and binds them back to the headboard, not bothering with her feet. The flogger brushes, again, between her legs before landing with a _whoosh_ against her upper thighs.

“Harder, Eve. Harder.”

Another, up over the curve of her ass.

 _“Yes,”_ she groans as Eve starts up a rapid rhythm, gasping her breaths between strokes. Maze would gladly take it like this for hours, until her blood spotted the sheets as evidence of a surrender she’ll gladly grant. But Eve is, despite everything, still mortal, and after a few minutes her pace begins to flag.

“The whip,” Maze whispers, when the space between strikes grows painfully long. She doesn’t need so many of those to be satisfied. Maybe she is also learning to be merciful.

Eve rests her head against her back for a moment, pressing a kiss to the base of her spine, hair tickling her waist, before she stands. By the soft moan she makes, she’s apparently stretching luxuriantly, and Maze wishes desperately she could see. Eve’s feet tap against the floor as she returns to the wall of toys, the leather of the whip sliding free with a soft _shick_ that pulls blood to Maze’s cheeks.

She rolls her hips into the mattress to find whatever friction she can, but then Eve is there, trailing her fingertips down her spine, pressing her back into the bed. But she has no more commands, no more harshness. “I’ve got you,” she says instead, raising her voice almost in proclamation as she withdraws to stand tall beside the bed. “I’ve got you.”

And then the rough, beautiful tongue of leather is jagged as ice over her ass, flicking over her hip like sparks of hellfire. She bites the sheets under her mouth, body moving restlessly. She tries to prepare for the next strike, but it’s too fast, not fast enough. Torn between tenderness and cruelty, she shakes and groans and tears the sheets, pulling at her restraints hard enough to drag her body up the bed.

The third wraps over her inner thigh, and she hisses and bucks, skin shivering with sensory overload. It’s too much, and it’s not nearly enough, and the fourth steals her breath until she’s snarling and hissing, hurtling toward a place she rarely reaches.

Yet through it all, Eve is whispering such beautiful things above her head, telling her she’s glorious and perfect and sweet and darling, and _this…_ this is too much. It’s enough that she bites her lip, smearing blood over torn sheets, and growls, “More.” But even as the edge of command creeps into her voice, Eve brushes the welt on her thigh with a gentle hand, and she grinds out a soft, aching, _“Please.”_ Mazikeen, first of the Lilim, does _not_ beg. But Maze, friend to a human child, beloved of a human woman, bound to no oaths but the one she presses to Eve’s cunt with her lips, _she_ does. “Please,” she repeats, and there is no shame in it.

“Of course,” Eve breathes. “Whatever you desire.”

And _oh,_ that word is crueler and kinder both than any of the pain or pleasure could ever be.

The fifth and sixth strikes hit one after the other, both against the strong curve of Maze’s ass, and she clenches around nothing, a release more of mind than of body—but more glorious for all that—flowing through her as hot blood weeps slowly from the wound.

This is far from the most pain she has played with, but there is something uniquely affecting when Eve—sweet, obedient, supposedly subservient Eve—is the one taking the crop and the whip and the flogger to her. When she is the one drawing Maze’s unholy blood and painting it across the soft sheets of their bed. When she does not simply take her satisfaction from Maze’s body, but stays to care for her in a way that never feels like weakness. She cleanses the blood away, treats the welts with salves and affection, washes away the sharpness of agony until only a tender ache remains. And there, in that moment, there is peace.

Is this what humans mean when they talk about baptism? Not in water or spirit or flame, but in her own blood, in the softness of Eve’s hands. Her care is no less drowning than Jordan rivers, than lakes of fire. And Maze is no less cleansed by her attentions than by any poorer scourging.

When she finally wakes from the place she was slowly drifting, the blindfold is gone, and Maze finds the leather of her restraints in tatters on the bed. She stares at them, then turns her head to blink at the bruises on her wrists that are already fading.

“You broke them,” Eve tells her. She’s perched at her side, brushing her hair from her face.

“I’m…” Maze licks her lips, no longer tasting blood, and pulls herself onto her side. “I was supposed to stay still. I didn’t… I meant to—”

“You were perfect,” Eve murmurs again, as if she’d say it over and over until Maze believes it. Maze knows just as well as she knows anything that she would, that she will. She turns to lie down so they are resting side by side. Maze reaches up with a shaking hand to grasp her breast—less to arouse than to ground herself—and Eve’s eyes slip closed, a soft hum escaping her lips.

Maze swore to herself she’d never vow herself to anyone ever again, but as the soft light of the moon drifts across Eve’s blissful face, she thinks of a garden where both their sorrows began. A kingdom of light she cannot comprehend where, one day, one of them may again rest. A kingdom of ash and brokenness where the other will likely return to dwell.

“Where you go, I go,” Maze says softly, and Eve’s lashes flutter as she stares into her eyes. “Where you stay, I stay.”

“Maze…” Eve leans forward, pressing their foreheads together, seemingly at a loss for any other word.

“Your enemies will be my enemies,” Maze continues, feeling the weight of a vow she has never taken lightly, “and your darkness my endless night.”

It is what passes for sacred in Hell, and Maze’s eyes prick with heat and uncertainty. But Eve doesn’t turn away, doesn’t laugh, only presses hand to hand, a kiss to her lips. As the moon falls below the horizon, and the fuller darkness of night sets in, they hold each other in this moment and breathe each other’s breaths.

And naught but death would part them.


End file.
